The car is almost empty, and the few companions we have are of the masculine order; the touristical element is absent. Our companions, judging from, their conversation, are all Texan farmers who have been on a trip through Florida, combining business with pleasure, investigating the land generally, seeing how they could improve their own possessions; and gathering up hints and facts and scraps for future use. One talked of giving up his cattle ranch in Texas, and migrating to Florida altogether.
“Steers and heifers, and such-like are well enough raisin’,” he said, “but them cattle lifters are always about, and keep us a little too lively all the time. When we go to bed at night we are never sure we sha’n’t find our cattle driven off in the morning, and then—well, there’s generally a little shootin’ before we can get ’em back. I’ve seen so much of that sort of thing that now I’m getting an old man I’m tired of it. It seems all so quiet and peaceful down Florida, no lifters nor raiders thereabouts. I think,” he added, after a pause, “I shall turn my cattle into orange groves.”
The conversation generally turned upon agricultural matters, in which, of course, they were all deeply interested—in fact, so interested, that they interested us. We could not help observing how much better educated they seem to be than the same class at home. Two lively young fellows entered into a brisk discussion as to the relative superiority of their different States. One, a tall, lanky, loose-jointed specimen, was a landowner in “Alabama”—or “Alabawmer,” as he called it, with a by no means unpleasant drawl; the other was a restless, eager-eyed young Texan, as full of quips and cranks as a young monkey. He seemed to regard life generally as a good joke, and turned everything into a laugh; sometimes the laugh was against himself, but he was shrewd and sensible enough, though he had a queer, quaint way of handling his subject. It was a pleasant journey on the whole; their rough-and-ready talk was amusing, and gave us a new view of life in the wilds. Their account of the various methods of cultivating lands in the different States was most interesting, and we wish we could drop these grains of useful knowledge among those who could benefit by it. The seeds we sow and the harvests we gather have little to do with the agricultural interests.
Our conductor, as usual, when he has leisure from his official duties, lounges across to our section and enters into a pleasant conversation with us. He discusses the social, political, and literary questions of the day with sound good sense and much discrimination. He opens his stores of knowledge freely, and shows us through every department of his mind; as one door shuts he opens another, takes a header, and plunges from one subject to another without any preliminary leading up thereto; he seems determined to make the best use of his time, and show us how much worldly and intellectual gossip can be gathered in the wilds of Alabama. He reminds us of the clever tradesman who conducts you through the warehouse where all his best goods are on exhibition. He embellished his conversation with poetical quotations from Tennyson and Shakespeare, and occasionally fished up from the depths of his memory a mysterious passage of Browning and tried to make sense of it. He endeavoured, but failed, to extract the poet’s meaning from the conglomerated mass of fine phrases and high-sounding words with which he had scrupulously clothed and concealed it, as though he never intended anybody ever should find it out; and, indeed, if he entered on the quest, might have some difficulty in finding it out himself. Our conductor appears to be a devotee of the drama, too, and is not disposed to hide his light under a bushel. He waxed critical on the subject of Modjeska’s Juliet and Bernhardt’s Camille; he had seen both once when he had been travelling East. The time passed so pleasantly that we were sorry when his duties called him away, but they did not very often. Our agricultural companions evidently thought our conversation frivolous and foolish, and occasionally snorted a disapproving snarl about play-acting.
As there are no dining cars attached to this train, meals are served at stated places. At Waycross we get an excellent supper—a thoroughly enjoyable and satisfactory meal. Some of our fellow-travellers, having been deluded into the belief that nothing eatable was to be had on the road, abstracted from the bowels of their baskets stale sandwiches, crumpled buns, and mashed fruits, a delightful provision against starvation, which had got considerably mixed during the journey.
We reach Montgomery about eight o’clock in the evening, and there we have to wait two hours for the New Orleans train. It is not often we have these long dreary waits by the wayside; as a rule the correspondence between the trains is arranged so as to avoid this inconvenience. However, we have to wait now, and had best bear the annoyance patiently. We take a walk through the dimly-lighted town, indulge in a little characteristic gossip with the natives, and the time soon passes; it is useless to fret and fume over the unavoidable—travelling has taught us that much. On our return to the “waiting-room” (so called by courtesy, for it is a mere shed with a few wooden benches), our attention is attracted by a young woman who is seated in a dusky corner; she has a fractious child about a year old in her arms, and in a tired voice is telling somebody of the long weary journey she has had, and—
“Now,” she continues, with a low sob in her voice, “I have to go on a common car all the way to New Orleans. I cannot get a sleeping berth; I have just been to the office, and they say they are all taken.”
I doubt this, as I have just had a choice of two; I volunteer to go and see what I can do in the matter, and succeed in securing for her the last berth. As soon as we enter the car I see that the woman is coloured; perhaps this is the reason of her failure. One or two of our fellow passengers look on her askant, as coloured people are not generally taken on the Pullman cars, but no one was inhuman enough to take exception to her presence.
There is a stir, a momentary confusion in finding and settling ourselves in our different sections; if we would only be guided by the calm official mind, we should be guided thereto in less time and with less trouble. We are both tired and sleepy, and in an incredibly short time are in our closely-curtained berths fast asleep, wandering through the land of nod.
Suddenly we are violently shaken out of our sleep. Jerk! crash! and we stand still. Doors open and shut, men pass hastily to and fro, the gentlemen tumble out of their berths; soon everybody is astir, and mysterious whispers and wonderings pass from one to another. “We’re off the line,” says one; “The train’s wrecked;” “Any body hurt?” “It’s brigands,” etc. We are in the last car, fortunately for us, and we step out on to the platform to ascertain for ourselves what is really the matter. A polite unknown voice issues from the darkness—